This 'eyewitness' account of Lou Reed and The Velvet
Underground performing at the New York Society for Clinical Psychiatry originally
appeared in the New York Times on January 14, 1966. The Warhol produced 'happening'
would eventually evolve into the Exploding
Plastic Inevitable:

The New York Society for Clinical Psychiatry
survived an invasion last night by Andy Warhol, Edie Sedgwick and a new rock
'n' roll group called "The Velvet Underground."

"The Chic Mystique of Andy Warhol,"
described by an associate of the painter as "a kind of community action-underground-look-at-your-self-film
project," was billed as the evening's entertainment for the psychiatry
society's 43d annual dinner at Delmonico's Hotel. And until the very last minute,
neither group quite believed the other would show up.

But sure enough, as the black-tied psychiatrists
and their formally gowned wives began to trickle into Delmonico's lobby at 6:30,
there was Andy, and in evening get-up, too - sunglasses, black tie, dinner jacket
and corduroy work pants. And right there with him were some of his "factory"
hands - Gerard Malanga, poet; Danny Williams, cameraman, and the "factory"
foreman, Billy Linich.

The "factory" as any Warhol buff
knows, is the big, sliver-lined loft where he and his coterie make their underground
films and help mass-produce Andy's art.

What "The Chic Mystique" was nobody
really explained. The Warhol part of the program included a showing of his underground
films as background for cocktail conversation and, at dinner, a concert by the
rock 'n' roll group. And Warhol and his cameramen moved among the gathering
with hand-held cameras, using the psychiatrists as the cast of a forthcoming
Warhol movie.

The psychiatrists who turned out in droves
for the dinner, were there to be entertained - but also, in a way, to study
Andy. "Creativity and the artist have always held a fascination for the
serous student of human behavior," said Dr. Robert Campbell, the program
chairman. "And we're fascinated by the mass communications activities of
Warhol and his group.

Delmonico's elegant white-and-gold Colonnade
and Grand Ballroom had probably never seen such a swinging scene. Edie Sedgwick,
the "superstar" of Warhol's movies, was on full blast - chewing gum
and sipping a martini.

There was John Cale, leader of "The Velvet
Underground," in a black suit with rrhinestones on the collar. There was
Nico, identified by Warhol as "a famous fashion model and now a singer,"
in a white slack suit with long blond hair. And there were all those psychiatrists,
away from their couches but not really mingling, not letting their hair down
at all.

"I suppose you could call this gathering
a spontaneous eruption of the id," said Dr. Alfred Lilienthal. "Warhol's
message is one of super-reality," said another, "a repetition of the
concrete quite akin to the L.S.D. experience." "Why are they exposing
us to these nuts?" a third asked. "But don't quote me."

Dr. Arthur Zitrin, director of psychiatry at
Bellevue Hospital, was slightly worried. "We've had everyone appear at
these annual dinners, from Paul Tillich to Warhol," he said. "I'm
program chairman for next year. How the hell are we going to follow this act?"

The act really came into its own about midway
through the dinner (roast beef with stringbeans and small potatoes), when "The
Velvet Underground," swung into action. The high-decibel sound, aptly described
by Dr. Campbell as "a short-lived torture of cacophony," was a combination
of rock 'n' roll and Egyptian belly-dance music.

The evening ended with a short talk by Jonas
Mekas, film director and critic. But long before that, guests had begun to stream
out. The reaction of the early departees was fairly unanimous. "Put it
down as decadent Dada," said one. "It was ridiculous, outrageous,
painful," said Dr. Harry Weinstock. "Everything that's new doesn't
necessarily have meaning. It seemed like a whole prison ward had escaped."

"You want to do something for mental health?"
asked another psychiatrist. "Kill the story."